Matchbook Mayhem
by LindsayQ
Summary: A supposed "run of the mill" mission goes south fast, with almost tragic consequences. (Genderswap - Fem!Solo)


**Disclaimer:** The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and anything connected to it in does not belong to me in anyway.

 **Warning:** Contains a few swear words

Ok, so here it is. An unedited, 3000+ word fanfic featuring one of the biggest tropes used in fanfictions, Genderswap. Admittedly it's a trope I've always been fascinated with and hope against hope that I've done it even the slightest bit of justice. And the whole "mission gone wrong" thing has been worked to death, but it worked for me this time so I stuck with it.

That being said, of course, I apologise for any formatting, punctuation, tenses and spelling and for any drastic "Out of Characterness" of "Leona" or Illya you may come across.

This fanfic was created solely as an attempt to break free of the absolutely inescapable box Writer's Block has trapped me in for almost half the year and 90% of it was written during the longest bout of Insomnia I've ever had. If it's crap, I'm sorry, I did try.

I'd truly appreciate any comments you may have.

* * *

With most of his weight on the bar's footrail, Illya balanced vicariously on the edge of the heavy barstool with ease. His attention, though seemingly focused entirely on the unused matchbook flipping between the fingers of his right hand, was really on the dark-haired woman, currently wooing half the population of, decidedly womanising, alcoholics that made up the political pool in New York State, in the opposite corner of the dimly lit club.

He looked up and to his left just enough to gaze upon her through his eyelashes at the unmistakable sound of her laughter. Her arm, he observed, slid slowly from the arm of the man currently holding her attention, as she nodded at the waiter that presented her with another Glenfiddich. Illya smirked despite himself, he already knew her order - single ice cube in a chilled glass. His lip curled just that bit more as he watched her take the tumbler and caress the frost covered crystal with her finger tips.

Somethings never changed.

On queue, he made a show of deliberately fumbling the matchbook, solely for her benefit and swore loudly in Italian then bent quickly to retrieve it. He made sure to brush the roughened edge of the heel of his palm against his pant leg in order to set off the static electrically charged wire both he and Leona had on their persons. In conjunction with the receiver in his communicator (and hers, which was currently hanging from her ear), the wire made for a direct link to U.N.C.L.E.

They had their man.

As far as he was concerned, Illya and Leona had successfully completed their mission.

All they had to do now was wait.

"Light, mister?" Leona purred in flawless Italian just as Illya popped back up and adjusted his suit jacket. His blue eyes fluttered minutely, the only outward sign that his gut had just completed a full 180-degree flip.

She wasn't supposed to be here yet.

Though he tried to read her, he found her to be completely shut down, which meant something had gone wrong and they were both in rather a lot of trouble. His attention shifted momentarily from her to the circle of dimwits behind her. The shortest one of the group still had about two or three inches on him.

Once he'd cleared his throat, Illya nodded once, offered her a little smirk and said, "of course, madam." He watched her face as he flipped the matchbook open and ripped off a match. He struck it against the counter top, only a couple centimetres from her free hand. They both seemed to hold their breath as they waited for the cigarette to catch and then, just as she stepped back and nodded her thanks, Leona tapped twice on the bar-top with the pointer finger of her free hand and it took every ounce of training he had not to react.

They'd been found out.

Once again, Illya turned his attention to the dimwits. However, only for a split second lest they notice him noticing them.

He allowed his smile to blossom and lifted her free hand from the countertop. He pressed his lips to her knuckles and whispered to her in slightly accented Italian, "Dance with me."

Expectedly, Leona frowned at that and shook her head ever so slightly as she exhaled on the blue smoke she'd been holding since her first puff and put the cigarette out in the milk glass ashtray with far more force than necessary. "I can handle this," she snapped, her body leaning into his slightly, "did you call them?"

"Yes," movement behind her forced Illya to shift his attention from her and then back again in less than a second. He squeezed her hand as tightly as he dared, put his other hand to the curve of her hip and spoke quickly; still in Italian. "He's coming, smack me! Now!"

Thankfully for Illya, Leona had always taken orders well. He felt rather than heard her hand connect with his cheek. The force of which had his face whipping none too gently to the left. A groan fell from his lips, produced by a mix of both theatrics and literal shock, shock that it'd hurt as much as it had. He moved the hand from her hip to his quickly reddening cheek. Once he managed to blink enough of the spots from his vision, Illya whipped his eyes, now furious, back to her and twisted his lip into a snarl so it would show in his voice. "Go with him! Let him rescue you."

Instead of nodding Leona just blinked and smacked his other cheek just as hard for good measure.

He recovered quicker this time, and just in time to see the twinkle return to his friend's dark eye for split second before it was smothered again by both fear and duty.

Her curiously accurate Italian accented English floated through the air, heard easily from their close proximity over the sounds of Coltrane's "I'll Wait and Pray". Illya rolled his shoulder, pressed his elbow against the bar and shifted his entire body in her direction in order to eye the exchange for what he thought would be for only a second. Instead, he found himself entranced, completely in awe of the control she seemed to possess over the group. Her hand went to the arm of the bulkiest man of the band of dimwits, and squeezed the hunk of flesh he called a forearm gently, and quickly followed it by, "you must not worry so, Franklin."

Franklin, and everyone of his cronies, Illya knew, hadn't heard a word she'd said.

All 16 pairs of eyes in the heads of the dimwits had focused almost immediately on her in a much different direction. It didn't take a genius to what had them so spellbound. Both Illya's fists clenched almost reflexively as the blood in his veins started to boiled. Wholly incensed on his friend's behalf. Especially considering that it was his fault she was wearing what she was. A lowcut U necked black sequin dress instead of the canary yellow halter dress she'd wanted to wear.

Not suitable for a Jazz club, he'd said. Obviously, he needed to think before he spoke.

"Why don't we return to the dance, yes?" she squeezed "Franklin's" arm, and moved toward the centre of the club again. He figured they'd be fine now until they arrived. And, they would have been, if "Franklin" hadn't decided that, to follow her, his hand needed to be on her rear-end.

The Russian's stomach flipped again right before it dropped like lead to his feet and shot back up into his throat. His eyes caught the minute contraction of Franklin's hand muscles against her backside.

Leona seemed not to even notice.

Unfortunately for her, maybe, he had.

"She's a human being not a piece of fucking meat! You pieces of absolute dog filth!" Illya spit in impassioned Russian tinged Italian. One of his fist came down on the bar-top hard enough to bring everyone, and everything around them, to an absolute stand still.

He felt the weighty hand crush his shoulder half a second before the palpable burn of the penknife in his lower back. Illya kept his features as schooled as possible just as a heavy New York accent sounded in his ear. "Lets walk carefully toward the hall, you and I, and settle this, right?"

His head twitched toward the voice, but he kept his attention facing forward, toward the now quickly vanishing group, like he was sure he would have been told to anyway.

"What is he planning-" his Italian fell away as soon as the man spoke again.

"You can drop the E-talian, Mr. Kuryakin, I'm quite aware of who you and your girlie friend are." As if proving a point, the goon forced the knife just that bit deeper into him and twisted.

The sensation would have easily brought a lesser man to their knees. Fortunately for him, discipline, resentment and just a little bit of self loathing kept him vertical. "Kelso's one of yours then, I assume."

The smile in the man's voice was punctuated by a none-too-friendly stuttered tap to the handle knife in his back. "THRUSH has always been quite politically minded. We've got quite the collection of friends in –" the bullet singed the hair just above his ear as it whizzed by him and imbedded itself in the goon's head behind his.

The force of the man's deadweight dropping to the floor unimpeded, and Illya's own waning strength meant both he and the dead man dropped to the floor in a quick rush of chaos.

"Agent Kuryakin, are you—" he cut the rookie agent that suddenly appeared at his side off with a pained groan, and did his best to roll on to his side so when he did lose consciousness, it wouldn't drive the penknife even deeper. "Get Solo-"

"An ambulance is on it's way."

Illya grabbed the girl's lapel and pulled her close to him, "listen to me carefully, 'right?"

The wide-eyed girl's jaw snapped shut as she nodded.

"Ensure Agent Solo is not compromised in anyway and then come bac-come back for me." She moved as soon as he dropped his hand away. Which meant she wasn't at all ready when he pulled her back down again. Only her reflexes saved her from falling face first into a leg of a barstool and then on to him. "And if there is anything…wrong with he-her…"

"Everything's good, Tovarish!"

No matter how hard he tried, Illya couldn't coordinate the movements of his eyes and neck well enough to look at her before he rolled his head toward the sound of her voice. So, he hadn't seen the worried wrinkle form between her eyebrows as she took in his form on the ground.

Her hand suddenly covered his. "We've just got to get you seen to now. Everything's fine."

He felt a kiss to his knuckles just before he finally let himself give in.

Usually a random stab to the back, as Illya had found out first hand on many occasions prior to this, didn't result in such dangerously quick internal bleeding, not like this one apparently had. Which meant that one: He wasn't the man's first stabbing victim – not by a long shot, two: The man probably had had training of some sort, be it academically or vocationally, and knew exactly where to hit to cause the most damage, and three: he, himself, was probably in a lot of trouble.

0-0-0

The feeling of his skin crawling is what woke him from a slumber he hadn't completely realised he'd taken. "Illya?" he startled when the feeling morphed into someone squeezing his hand. For the life of him he couldn't understand—ah, Leona. "You back with us?"

The only thing he saw once he finally managed to work an eye open was white, and for one terrifying split second he worried that he'd gone blind. It wasn't until Leona called his name again and his head turned toward her voice did he calm down.

Her smile was easy, her voice soft and her touch grounding. However, even in the state he was in, Illya could see the sharp pinch of worry around her too bright eyes. When he worked the other eye open, blinked once and then twice he saw the full picture. The too bright, too brown colour of her eyes nearly matched the bruised puffy bags underneath them perfectly, and contrasted greatly with the almost unhealthy paleness of the rest of her face. All of which, Illya knew from experience, were the results of prolonged sleep deprivation.

He did his best to squeeze her hand in return. It took a few tries before his dried lips parted enough to let his disused voice stutter out his question. "Are you ok?" thanks in part to the cocktail of drugs currently coursing through his battered body as well as the effort it took to just blink at the moment, Illya hadn't realised he'd spoken in Russian. Leona, however, never missed a beat. Her smile ended up being the only indication anything was off. It disappeared.

Her free hand shook only slightly as she covered their joined hands. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a few seconds before she replied in perfect yet weakened Russian. "Yes, I'm well, my friend," Leona's chest seemed to collapse in on itself in time with the increased brightness in her eyes.

"Now its my turn to ask," her smile returned, if a bit dimmer than before. "How are you feeling?"

Illya glowered and reached for her face with his free hand, but hissed when the IVs attached to that hand pulled and started to burn a trail from the tips of his fingers all the way up his arm, right to the top of his head and back down again.

"Careful," Leona chastised, dropping her eyes to his wrist, before moving quickly to take his hand in hers.

He watched, unblinking, as she lowered his arm across his stomach, avoiding his eyes the entire time.

"This isn't you."

She froze. Her attention was still focused downwards, as if the medical tape, that was wrapped too tightly around his wrist, that held the IV line in place was the most important thing in the world, not the person attached to said wrist. Of whom she was currently and deliberately avoiding.

She shook her head rather vigorously. "I don't know what you— "

"You're feeling guilty."

The look he got in return had him recoiling into the pillow. It was a look he'd never once, in the almost four years they'd been partnered, seen on her face. And it was not one he hoped to ever be on the receiving end of again.

It was the look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

However, just as fast it appeared, it disappeared. And with it, most her energy.

"You don't understand," Leona dropped like a stone into the high back chair beside his bed, suddenly devoid of enough energy to stand on her own two feet anymore. "If I hadn't come over," she slapped a hand to her head and grimaced as her hand caught on several little knots and catches as she forced it through her hair. She grimaced again, but barely, when she managed to trap just enough in a fist and gave it a good hard yank.

Illya winced for her.

To all that knew her knew that this was a sure sign her anxiety was sky high and only getting higher by the minute. Leona Solo was as protective of, and careful with, her hair as most men were with their cars. For her to be treating with it so much disregard…Illya actually found it quite unsettling.

"If you hadn't come over there would have been no way I would have known he suspected anything. You could have ended up in a lot of an unsettling amount of trouble and I wouldn't have been close enough to assist." Assistance being his primary reason for coming along, per Mr. Waverly, and nothing more. The job, as they'd all assumed, was nothing Leona couldn't handle. She'd forced the hand of many a member of lots of political parties in many, many different countries, in much the same way.

Wasn't it ironic that the one she time she almost failed would happen in the United States?

Her eyes finally locked on his and Illya had to work to keep the shock from showing on his face when his eyes noticed the absolute lack of emotion in her brown eyes.

She didn't even blink as she spoke, "you also wouldn't have ended up here."

That seemed to be the key to finally drawing something to the surface. Illya rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out just Leona's fist came down on the molded plastic arm of the chair. Her voice, however, was still lacking any inflection whatsoever. "They were coming! I knew they were coming! I saw you drop the matches, they were coming! I had no right to come over to you! I endangered both you and the mission," she frowned as one shoulder rolled forward into a shrugged, "and for what?" Everything seemed to drain away from her once more and Illya finally remembered how to exhale.

He made sure to keep his voice at an even keel when he replied. "You did what you had to do."

The hysterical laugh he got in reply both confused and concerned the Russian more than he thought he'd ever been about and for her. Leona's gaze lost focus as she threw her arms around herself and bowed her head, "and it almost cost you your life."

His reply was instantaneous. "Needs must."

And apparently far too flippant for her because the look he'd dreaded returned, tenfold. "You say that again and I will see to it that you do not make it out of that bed."

"It was a successful mission."

The air in the room cooled in the blink of his sleep crusted eye in time in time with Leona launching herself from her chair. "You almost died, you unfeeling little bastard!" Her bare feet literally squeaked as she shot around to the opposite side of the bed and held up three fingers.

Illya, however, hadn't noticed her movements, he'd been too caught on the fact that Leona had swore. In fact, she was usually the one that chastised him for using anything harder than damn. Since the very first day they'd met, Leona had always prided herself on her vocabulary and had always tried to find an alternative to lowering herself to such barbarity.

My god, Illya thought, fisting the bedsheet beneath him in an effort to ground himself again, what had happened while I slept?!

"Three times!" She snapped, unphased by her partner's suddenly questioning gaze. "You coded three god damn times!" she moved her hand close to her chest and began to count. "Once in the ambulance, and twice on the table." The brunette then shoved her body as close to the top of the bed. Close enough, in fact, her hip hit the IV pole and sent it bouncing into the side of the bed. "Whatever Frawley did- none of it was accidental."

He could have told her that.

"He pulverised your spleen to the point that no one believed you'd ever-" the ice in his veins showed suddenly in her eyes as she froze. It was a few seconds later before she finally continued, once the ice thawed and the fear dissipated. "They said you should have died at the bar."

Illya had taken advantage of the minute pause in her rant and reached for her with his unsteady grasp and only stopped when fingers brushed against the cool black leather of the belt she wore. He slapped her hand away gently when she went to readjust his arm again.

The Russian tried to make sure everything he felt went into his look. "I didn't die, I'm still here and the mission was a success. We're fine."

"You haven't got a spleen," she countered without missing a beat, her hands reaching for him again. This time he let her succeed. "You could get seriously ill or die just from getting a cold during the winter, a minor car accident could cause a blood clot to form anywhere in your body and travel to your— "

"That could happen to anyone."

Her eyes burned once again as she spat back, "not to you!"

Her whole body seemed to relax again, and all at once, as the heel of her palm a hand struck her forehead. Her voice finally showed the defeat the rest of her no doubt felt. "You don't understand; this wasn't supposed to happen. We weren't supposed to be here."

His other hand came across his stomach in order to cover their joined hands, but fell short when he felt the stitches in his back protest. She frowned, he just waved her off again.

"Look," he started, making sure to speak with as much feeling as he could muster. It was the only way she was going to listen, if at all. He managed to finagle a finger into one of her belt loops and wasted no time in pulling her closer to him. "It happened, we're here and it's fine." He paused just long enough to swallow and then, "I'm fine. You're fine. Life goes on."

Her almost sickly pale features seemed to brighten slightly at his statement, but then, dimmed again seconds later as she nodded and turned her head away. Illya took that time to study the profile of his friend and partner for a few seconds, and did nothing to hide the frown as he took in the foreign sharpness to the curve of her jaw line and of her cheekbone, the slight hollowness of her cheek and the almost palpable air of absolute exhaustion that had enveloped her like an unwelcome friend.

His question was quick. "When was the last time you went home?"

Leona didn't even startle, just dropped her hand from his and continued staring at the wall. "You were injured three weeks ago tomorrow."

"That's not what I asked. I want to know-" Illya froze yet again and looked to his blanket covered toes, he flexed them in order to combat the sensation of his blood running cold again. "You've not left my side at all in three weeks, have you?"

Silence and stillness was all he got in reply, but to him, it was just as damning.

"Where have you slept?"

Leona's head swiveled finally, and ever so slowly, across his body and settled on the chair she'd recently vacated.

He spoke before he should have, but just barely. "Are you mad?!"

"I wasn't going to just leave you." She shot back, just as on-edge as his. Her hands, now free of his, fumbled almost desperately for the railing of his hospital bed. "And I've slept on much worse. I was absolutely fi- "

He didn't let her finish her statement. "When was the last time you ate more than bare minimum?"

Her eyes lowered to the white knuckled grasp she had on the railing.

Illya's eyes rolled skyward and it took everything he had not to sound as condescending as he wanted to. "Your own organs now run the risk of shutting down, you know? You're being absolutely ridiculous."

"Don't you dare-" she warned, fiery in voice, but not in features. The perfect spy. "This wasn't about me."

"No," his reply was swift. He made sure his eyes showed the fiery she felt. "But it is now. There was no reason for you to be so foolish with your own health. I was fine."

"But you weren't!" Leona's exclamation came out sounding as if it had been ripped from her throat as her grip increased even more and her knees wobbled almost dangerously. It didn't take a genius to realise that the railing it was the only reason she was still able to stand. Brown eyes met blue again, and for the first time since he'd opened his eyes, he saw tears in hers. "You weren't and I had to make sure- "

His fingers came up to wrap gently around hers, still holding tight to the railing. He managed to smile coyly at his distraught partner and shake his head. "You really didn't, you know? I'm Russian."

The miniscule smile that formed on her face immediately afterward made his battered heart nearly skip a beat due to the surge of almost pure victory that shot through his body at the sight of it.

"Are you saying that that's the only reason you're still alive? Your Russian heritage."

"Yes," he retorted, feigning indignation, "of course it is." A toothy grin accompanied his response as his free hand slapped his chest. "Strong!" his exclamation was in Russian, as he immediately bent ever so slightly and coughed melodramatically into his hand and winked at Leona.

His heart fluttered again when her smile grew.

"Well, Tovarish," she started, her eyes finally shinning with the intelligence he was more accustomed seeing returned. "I'm afraid to tell you that you're not allowed a repeat like this for at least another decade. Company policy."

"Trust me when I say that it is a policy I look forward to adhering to." He patted one hand and then the other seconds before a buzzer went off beside him. The IV warning them the bags were running low.

"Interesting." Illya comment, 30 seconds later – a delay he'd blame on his injury. "Not one nurse or doctor has come around yet and I've been awake for," he blinked at the clock, "nearly seventeen minutes."

Leona's cheeks tinged with embarrassment, but only somewhat. Only enough to tell Illya that she'd heard him speak, but not enough to fully give away whether or not she felt any remorse for what she was about to say. Illya knew he had brace himself for anything, which was something he was quite use to – dealing with Leona Solo was not for the dull hearted or weak minded. Leona looked to the closed door almost defiantly, "as soon as I noticed you were coming 'round I locked it."

His blue eyes grew to almost comical proportions as he spluttered, "you what!?"

Leona looked back to him and blinked. "I wanted to be the first person you saw."

It wasn't said, but Illya heard it anyway; she didn't just *want* to be the first person. She *needed* to be the first person.

And you know what?

He was entirely alright with that.

End


End file.
